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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28653879">Dance Backwards Into Each Other</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theyna_Shipper/pseuds/Theyna_Shipper'>Theyna_Shipper</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Gift fics [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes &amp; Related Fandoms</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Dance, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, Gift Fic, M/M, Mrs. Hudson is a Dance Teacher, Piano, Prompt Fill, Sherlock plays the piano, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, dance</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 14:09:21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,555</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28653879</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theyna_Shipper/pseuds/Theyna_Shipper</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>And normally, John Watson would not care about, or even go to, the community center, but as he has been prescribed <i>dance lessons</i> for his leg wound, (and there is no place he can reasonably afford on a military pension) adult education classes at the community center it is. </p>
<p>(His therapist, too, thinks it would be a good idea for him to get out and meet more people). </p>
<p>The minute he steps in, he feels out of place. Most of the people there are women, or older than him. There is a young couple, maybe in their twenties, who must be from the local community college. The only man his age is wearing a lanyard that says <i>volunteer</i> and perched at a piano bench. </p>
<p>With his dark hair and silent demeanor, he is somewhat Byronic in his beauty. He nods curtly as John, before turning to piano to warm up on scales.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Birthday gift prompt fill: "Johnlock", "Dance"</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes/John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Gift fics [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2099928</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>43</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Dance Backwards Into Each Other</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gargammella/gifts">Gargammella</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Happy birthday, my dear babe, swert bread, orange creamsicle, plastic slide, bastard, and frog wife! I love you to bits and I'm so happy to gift you this fic. </p>
<p>Now, to those of you who aren't my frog wife, be warned that this is my first time writing for Sherlock, and it's been a while since I've seen the show, so please be nice :). </p>
<p>Thank you to @Aeduan_Dragon for beta-ing and assuring me this isn't the worst piece of garbage in the English language. </p>
<p>xoxoxo, and thanks for reading, from your cabbage wife</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There is something equal parts endearing and pathetic about the community center– pathetic in the sense that the dilapidated concrete suggests the insufficient government funding  requiring their budget to be augmented with mediocre bake sales, but endearing in the way the children’s paintings on the walls show that there are enough people who care about the place to host a mediocre bake sale. </p>
<p>And normally, John Watson would not care about, or even go to, the community center, but as he has been prescribed <i>dance lessons</i> for his leg wound, (and there is no place he can reasonably afford on a military pension) adult education classes at the community center it is. </p>
<p>(His therapist, too, thinks it would be a good idea for him to get out and meet more people). </p>
<p>The minute he steps in, he feels out of place. Most of the people there are women, or older than him. There is a young couple, maybe in their twenties, who must be from the local community college. The only man his age is wearing a lanyard that says <i>volunteer</i> and perched at a piano bench. </p>
<p>With his dark hair and silent demeanor, he is somewhat Byronic in his beauty. He nods curtly as John, before turning to piano to warm up on scales. </p>
<p>An older woman, also wearing a lanyard, walks up to him and shakes his hand. “You must be John. You called ahead, didn’t you? Don’t mind our Sherlock, he’s only here for the piano anyways.”</p>
<p>“Now, Mrs. Hudson, I’m also suspicious that this is a front for the mob,” he says quietly, not looking up from the yellowed keys. </p>
<p>“Of course it is. Well, Dr. Watson, this is just a beginner class, so it shouldn’t be too hard to pick up on. Just take off your shoes and take a place at the barre, and we’ll get started.” She smiles at him, and he cautiously takes his place. </p>
<p>By the end of his first class, his ankles are sore from coming up and down off <i>relevé</i>, whatever the hell that is, and he is wondering what exactly this is supposed to do for his leg, but he’s still back in the drafty room a week later listening to Mrs. Hudson’s instructions, and listening to Sherlock play even-tempoed pieces on the untuned upright. </p>
<p>For someone who’s only in this for use of an instrument, he does not get to play very exciting pieces, John notices– and it makes him think that there must be something else he’s here for. </p>
<p>It is only after a month of classes that he finds any clues to what this may be, when he cuts himself on the splintered barre and needs to bandage it before he leaves. </p>
<p>Probably believing himself to be alone, Sherlock begins to play something on the piano, something that is neither plain nor formulaic, teasing some magical out of the plunky keys. </p>
<p>But John quickly feels as if he is intruding on something private, and leaves quietly before he can be noticed.</p><hr/>
<p>It takes time, but John overcomes his cynicism regarding the class, and actually finds himself enjoying it– it makes him feel light on his feet in a way he hasn’t in a long time. And the French terms may be ridiculous, the choreography plain, and the floor slippery, but he can’t remember the last time he found something that made him <i>comfortable</i> like this. If he could afford it, he might even consider going to a real studio. </p>
<p>And all this is before mentioning the silent, brooding pianist. </p>
<p>He won’t pretend to understand Sherlock any better now than he did when he first started. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t notice him plenty. About a dozen times he has thought to start a conversation with him and about a dozen times he has lost his nerve. There’s something scary about him, whether it is the vaguely otherworldliness in his face or the pervasive silence that seems to settle around him. </p>
<p>Either way, it is not disturbed until the week John’s car breaks down and he has to take the bus home– and finds himself waiting for the bus with Sherlock. </p>
<p>The other man lights a cigarette against the bus stop wall, then turns to John. “I’d offer you one, but, I figured you’d quit.”</p>
<p>“How did you…”</p>
<p>“You have a cough, but your clothes never smell smokey.” He takes a drag off the cigarette. </p>
<p>“Maybe you’ve missed your true calling as a detective.”</p>
<p>“Bold of you to assume that I’ve missed it,” he says with a glint of a smile that adds some warmth to his otherwise icy eyes. “What’s your calling, John?” </p>
<p>“Still looking,” he mumbles. Something about this man– he seems to see right through you. </p>
<p>“Well, this is my bus. I’ll see you next week, I suppose?”</p>
<p>“I– yes.” </p>
<p>
  <i>Well, that went splendidly.</i>
</p><hr/>
<p>And, like the fool he is, he finds himself looking forward to seeing the pianist almost as much as he looks forward to anything else about the class. (What? Friends are hard to come by at his age, and clever ones even harder). </p>
<p>John learns a few things about Sherlock in the following weeks: </p>
<p>He was a psychology major in college, but hated it. </p>
<p>He is all but unemployed as a musician. </p>
<p>His income comes from restocking shelves at the library next to the community center. </p>
<p>And John is certain that Sherlock has learned plenty about him, though god only knows what. </p>
<p>“Do you play poker?”</p>
<p>“I’m sorry?”</p>
<p>“Poker,” Sherlock repeats. “Myself, Mrs. Hudson, and a friend of mine from the police station all play for a little friendly wager. Girl from the morgue used to play, too, but she became more successful than the rest of us and had to quit, I’m afraid. We could use a fourth player– if you’re interested, of course.”</p>
<p>He may wonder why Sherlock has friends at the morgue and the police station, but he agrees to play, and so he adds a second item to a list of ways to interact with people around him. </p>
<p>(His therapist, he thinks, will be so proud). </p>
<p>He’s very good at it, too– the army teaches you those sorts of things. And Greg and Mrs. Hudson may side-eye him when he cleans them out for the third time, though Sherlock doesn’t seem to mind. </p>
<p>“You know, I have to ask,” Sherlock asks once while they wait for their respective buses. “What made you want to dance? You don’t seem like the type.” Then, before John can respond, he adds. “You’re quite good, you know. I’ve seen a lot of beginners stumble their way through. But you’re not the kind of person one generally expects to see. </p>
<p>“It was… it was my doctor that made me try actually. But I stuck around, I liked it… the class, the movement– the people…”</p>
<p>“The people,” Sherlock repeats. “Well, John, I don’t always know about the people at a place like this, but you…” Then suddenly words seem to fail him, and Sherlock’s bus pulls up. “I’ll see you soon, John.”</p><hr/>
<p>“Greg got called to the station suddenly, and Mrs. Hudson is down with a cold, so it’s just us tonight, I’m afraid,” Sherlock tells him the next time he comes over for poker. “Hope you don’t mind? I would’ve called, but you would already have been on your way over by the time I heard from Greg.” </p>
<p>“Of course it’s fine,” John says. “So, how long exactly have the three of you been conspiring to murder me like this?”</p>
<p>Sherlock chuckles. “Don’t worry, the other heads in the fridge can keep you company. Tea?” </p>
<p>John accepts the tea gladly, and takes his place at the half-empty table. </p>
<p>“I, um, have you eaten yet? I made too much chicken piccata, and I thought–”</p>
<p>“I haven’t,” John replies. “But I don’t want to be a bother, I usually eat when I get home.”</p>
<p>“It’s no bother, really. I would never finish it all myself.”</p>
<p>“If you’re sure.” </p>
<p>But Sherlock insists, so he and John eat dinner together, and talk about the city, and how they came to the community center. </p>
<p>“You asked me if I thought I’d missed my true calling, a little while ago,” Sherlock says suddenly. “Do you think you have one? A calling?”</p>
<p>“If I have, I’ve probably missed it,” he admits. “So I suppose I’m one to talk.” </p>
<p>“What makes you think you’ve missed it?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know. I’ve heard I’m moody, difficult to work with, well-intentioned but not always well-executed. It seems like it would be hard to find one’s calling that way. </p>
<p>“I’ve been told the same things about myself, John.”</p>
<p>He nods, and lets comfortable silence settle between them, but then he suddenly realizes something. </p>
<p>“This is a date, isn’t it?”</p>
<p>“I’m sorry?”</p>
<p>“Coming to your home, eating dinner, asking me about myself– this is a date isn’t it?” </p>
<p>Sherlock bites his lip. “I’m not that subtle, I suppose.” </p>
<p>John shakes his head. “You’re not.” Then, he adds, “I would have said yes, you know. If you’d asked.” </p>
<p>“...But I suppose irreparably screwed this up by going about it like this? Wouldn’t be the first–” </p>
<p>“I would still say yes,” John adds.</p>
<p>“Then– then I suppose I’ll ask?” Sherlock says with a slight tilt of his head. </p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I would love comments! Thanks so much for reading, and happy birthday to my orange creamsicle :)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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